


he’s such a perfect ass

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Art Student Stiles Stilinski, Community: fullmoon_ficlet, Future Fic, M/M, Model Jackson Whittemore, Past Danny Mahealani/Jackson Whittemore, Past Lydia Martin/Jackson Whittemore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 16:55:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5256203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson’s a nude model, Stiles transfers to his school and takes a painting class. Yeah, things happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	he’s such a perfect ass

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for prompt #147 at Fullmoon_Ficlet. So. Streak. Streaks of paint. Streaks of things that are not paint. Streaking. And I tried to fit it all into a vaguely canon-compliant if you squint future fic. Which was really fun. Hope y’all enjoy!

Malia walks out of Room 203, stretching as she goes, her robe untied and hanging open. She grabs the edges, tugs them a little closer to decent as she grins at Jackson. “Full house in there, tonight. The new class is full of cute ones.”

“Stop trying to hook me up with the art students,” Jackson says dryly. “I’m not going to date one of the people I’m modeling for. Can you imagine how awkward that would be?”

Malia leans in, puts her hand on the shoulder and whispers against his cheek. “I didn’t say _date_ , Jackson. I meant _fuck_ one. You haven’t been laid in months.”

Years, actually. Lydia broke up with him before the end of high school, and the thing with Danny was just a brief fling during freshman year and Jackson was thankful when Danny broke it off for lack of chemistry. Jackson was bi, yes, but he really wasn’t into his best friend like that, no matter how much he wanted to be at the time.

Since then he’s focused on his education, on working for spending money since his father cut him off so he could learn to support himself. He doesn’t have time to date, or the leeway to just fuck around.

“Even more awkward,” he grumbles. “I don’t want to be thinking of _that_ when I’m modeling.”

Her grin is impish, teasing. “They might appreciate the view.” He swats at her ass as she swings her hips on the way by, turning to blow him a kiss as she heads down the hall. Of course she doesn’t give him a chance to respond; that’s just the way Malia is.

Ms. Martin leans out into the hall. “Jackson, are you ready for us?”

Because it isn’t already awkward enough modeling, one of his assignments is for his ex-girlfriend’s mother’s art class. “Ready.” She’s told him to call her Natalie, but he just can’t bring himself to do it, especially not when he’s shedding a robe to reveal his nude body and taking his space on the stool where she indicates. He lets her position him, trying to make sure he’s comfortable even though he’s posed artistically. He doesn’t look around at the class; unlike Malia, he doesn’t feel the need to make friends with the people who are going to be staring at him for an hour or two every week.

He zones out as soon as Ms. Martin starts talking about the male form and difference in musculature as opposed to the female body they were just working with. He can’t put in headphones—can’t even close his eyes—so he needs to just let his mind float and wander while the time passes. He can hear whispers around him, doesn’t bother to focus on hearing what they say. It’s only the first class and honestly, he’s been doing this since his sophomore year. He’s heard it all.

He mentally goes through his current workout plan, filtering through the daily lifts and stretches and deciding what he might change because it’s already been a month with this pattern. He needs a light week, then next week he can start something new. He’ll make notes when he gets back to the apartment, go over some of the details with Danny and set a time that they can meet up regularly this semester. While he’s been here all summer, Danny’s just getting back for the new year.

A throat clears behind him and it’s only training that keeps him from twisting around to see who it is. When he hears it again, he realizes that the class is over and everyone is packing up. And of course, someone wants to talk to him. It’s not the first time he’s been approached after class; for some reason people seem to think nudity is an invitation to make contact. Sometimes _intimate_ contact.

Jackson pastes a superior smirk on his expression, lifts one eyebrow as he turns, slowly unwinding his body from the position he’s been stuck in for the last sixty minutes. “Can I help you?”

“Hey.”

“Stilinski.” Jackson blinks, manages to get his feet around, set on the ground. He reaches for his robe, feeling naked more than nude as he shrugs into it. “Where the fuck did you come from?”

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” Stiles spreads his hands, shrugs, and Jackson can’t help but follow the fluid motion of his body. He’s changed since high school, growing into his lanky limbs and discovering a graceful economy of motion to replace his teenage flailing.

“We were never friends,” Jackson counters.

“Acquaintances then.” Stiles takes a step back, gives him space to stand and move off the dais. Jackson twists his belt, ties his robe shut while Stiles keeps talking. “Are you embarrassed? I used to shower with you after lacrosse. And we all know who lost the puberty lottery back in high school. If I could manage not to feel completely ridiculous when I was surrounded by naked guys like you and Danny, then you have no reason be ashamed of being naked in front of me now.”

“You have paint on your nose.” Jackson reaches out, brushes his thumb across the bridge of Stiles’s nose, and green paint lifts away, attaching to his skin. He’d be insulted, worrying that Stiles was painting him to look like an ogre, but he’s been here long enough to know that colors are a range of tones, and that strange colors go into shading sometimes. Jackson’s gaze rakes over him—he’s looking for _paint_ , not taking stock of how much Stiles has filled out since high school. “You have streaks of paint everywhere. Do you paint with your fingers? Bathe in it for inspiration?”

“I probably need a shower, but I’d be happy to invite you along.” Stiles takes another step in close, smirking. “Are you done looking? Maybe you’re the one who should paint a picture; it’d last longer.”

“I’m not an art student.” Jackson knows better than to work where he studies. “Triple major: International Relations, Sociology, and Mandarin.”

Stiles blinks several times, long lashes evident when he tilts his head. “Huh. Not what I expected.”

“I’m not an idiot jock,” Jackson growls, turning his back on Stiles and heading for the door. “Never was.”

“Didn’t say you were!” Stiles yells after him, but Jackson ignores him. Stiles doesn’t have to say it; Jackson’s well aware what everyone thought in high school.

#

Jackson has an IR seminar that ends at eight on Tuesdays, and after late classes he always stops for wings and beer on the way back to his apartment. He decides he wants a pizza this time, grabbing a Hawaiian to go along with the rest, then carries them up the three flights to his fourth floor walkup that he shares with Danny five blocks from campus. He doesn’t have any hands free, so he kicks the door, yelling, “Pizza.”

He should be surprised when Stiles opens the door, but somehow he’s not. Because of course he found Danny and found their apartment. Of _course_ he did.

“Second job?” Stiles quips as Jackson pushes his way past and drops the boxes on the kitchen table before he sets down his bag against the wall.

“Fuck you, Stilinski.” He opens the pizza, shifts his body in the way before Stiles can grab a piece. “This is _not_ your dinner. And I make more taking off my clothes than you’d ever be paid for keeping them on.”

“Share, Jackson.” Danny waits until Jackson takes two slices and puts them on a plate before he pulls the box away, moving it to the stove and handing a plate to Stiles as well. “You brought home extra food. Might as well share. Besides, Stiles brought beer.”

Jackson’s gaze narrows until Stiles holds up an Omegang Abbey Ale and pours the remains into a glass mug for Jackson.

“I brought _good_ beer. And you have crappy beer glasses, but they get the job done.” Stiles raises an ancient McDonald’s Hamburglar glass that they got at a yard sale and toasts the air. “To old friends.”

“Acquaintances,” Jackson says, and Stiles makes a noise while Danny laughs.

When they get into the living room, Stiles drops onto the bean bag, leaving the couch for Danny and the old beat-up recliner for Jackson like he’s already been warned who sits where. Jackson’s hungry, so he lets everything stay status quo and silent for as long as it takes to wolf down his pizza and a dozen wings, plus two glasses of beer—bringing the rest of the bottle back to the living room to share.

After he’s finally sated, he leans back and grabs for the remote, wrestling it out of Danny’s hands. “My turn.”

“Does he still like sappy movies?” Stiles asks, voice low and lazy. Jackson wonders when he started to sound like that, like he’s been fresh-fucked and is still in the bedroom. It’s a good sound. If he ignores the fact that this is _Stilinski_.

“His favorite movie is _Grease_. If it’s on, and he finds it, we’ll be watching it.” Danny tosses a pillow at Jackson who easily ignores it. “His second favorite is _Mystic Pizza_ , which we have on DVD. He watches it when he’s stressed.”

“Let me tell you about the things that Danny—” Jackson cuts off when another pillow from Danny smacks him in the face. He curls his lip, sneers, “What, trying to impress him?”

Danny leans back, arms behind his head. “I don’t have to impress him. He spent high school trying to convince me he’s cute. Which he is, and damned well knows it, so there’s no need to bother.”

Jackson looks over, stares frankly at Stiles. Maybe too frankly, but he’s also several beers in and thinking that he needs another, and Danny’s _right_. Stiles looks _good_. He’s grown into his limbs, filled out through the shoulders and apparently bought some fitted clothes. The henley fits across his chest with a little bit of stretch, leaving absolutely no doubt that Stiles spends some of his time working out.

Jackson licks his lips, notes the streaks of paint that still dot across Stiles’s skin. He manages to not reach out this time, but he’s tempted. Very tempted.

“Jackson has a distinctive ass,” Stiles says, words lazy and light. When silence greets his proclamation, he sits up, gestures with his drink. “What, I thought we were talking about our relative attractiveness? And Jackson’s ass is noticeable. I mean, I saw it for years in the locker room, and Danny, your chest is amazing. Let me tell you, ten out of ten, would stare at again, but Jackson’s _ass_. It looks squishable. Like if we’d all patted it before every game for luck, we never would’ve lost.” He leans back again, takes a long gulp from his glass and looks wistfully at the emptiness left after that. “Besides, there was that time Lydia dared him to streak through the school. Got a really good look then. And that’s how I recognized him during class. Because of that ass.”

Danny is laughing uncontrollably, doubled over with his arms wrapped around his center. And Jackson… Jackson can’t seem to figure out how to close his mouth, gaping at Stiles. “My ass,” he finally says.

“Your _naked_ ass,” Stiles says pointedly. “Which was right in front of me in class. Let me tell you, Jackson, you were a _much_ more inspiring model than the first one. Do you want to know what you inspired?”

Danny cackles. _Cackles_. Can’t seem to breathe, and rises quickly, pushing himself from the chair. “I’m just going to—I’m going to go get another drink. Give me your glasses.” He collects Jackson’s glass from his lax hand, and Stiles shoves his at Danny before he goes.

And Jackson’s alone with Stiles, who looks like he’s ready to compose an ode to Jackson’s ass.

When all else fails, retreat to being an asshole.

“What are you even _doing_ here?” Jackson growls, feeling the way his cheeks are hot. Stiles still stares at him, tilts slightly like he’s checking out the seat of Jackson’s jeans.

“Hopefully you.” Stiles goes silent then, and Jackson isn’t sure he heard the words, or if Stiles even meant to say them. Stiles inhales, then he relaxes again. “I transferred in for my last year. Because finances.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Danny and I are in the same class in advanced computational graphics, so he invited me over to get to work on a project. Nice guy, Danny, saying we could work together since I don’t know anyone in the class yet.” Stiles waves with one hand. “I’ll know them all soon enough, it’s just hard getting started. And art students are friendlier than the comp sci ones. Double major.”

If anyone had asked, Jackson wouldn’t have said Stiles Stilinski had an artistic bone in his body. But apparently he’s a fucking _art major_. Which means Jackson can’t get away from him. Not if he wants to keep his job. He might be able to switch off a shift with someone else—maybe Ethan would do it—but he likes having an income. And Ms. Martin’s classes pay the best.

“I have more majors than you,” Jackson points out, and Stiles laughs out loud, leaning back and clasping a hand against his chest. It only serves to draw attention to the outline of his nipples that Jackson can clearly see through the fabric of the shirt, and Jackson’s beginning to think maybe Stiles has the right idea.

Maybe it’s time to break his fast for the last few years. Maybe he just needs to get this out of his system and be done.

Danny claps Jackson’s shoulder, hands him another drink that Jackson gulps halfway down in one go. “Jackson, you should tell Stiles the thing he really wants to know.”

“And what’s that?” Stiles asks.

“Do _you_ think he’s attractive to gay guys?”

“Yeah.” Jackson doesn’t mean to say it out loud, but he can tell that he did by the way Stiles goes pink under the spray of moles that dot his skin. He’s sure he’s just as brightly flushed, and since he’s already said it, might as well just dig deeper. “And bi guys. And those hands could probably convince a straight guy to let him—” He stops speaking so quickly that he bites his tongue.

“I’m…” Danny takes a step away, “going out.” 

Stiles waves a hand as Danny heads for the door, and honestly, Jackson doesn’t care. He’s _interested_ for the first time in years and so _what_ if it’s fucking Stilinski. Jackson wants him, and he gets what he wants, so he just stands up and points down the hall.

“What?” Stiles asks, and Jackson smirks.

“You’ve still got paint on your face.” His gaze drops to where Stiles has his sleeves rolled up, at the streaks of orange and tan and yellow. “And your arms. I bet you’ve got paint pretty much everywhere.”

“Probably.” Stiles crosses his arms, stretches out his legs. “Haven’t managed to shower yet.”

“Want to?” Jackson wants to mirror his pose, protect himself with the armor of crossed arms, but he forces himself to stay loose, even offer a hand to help drag Stiles up. If he takes it.

There’s something vulnerable in Stiles’s gaze, in the way his amber eyes are fawn wide, staring at Jackson. It’s as if he’s trying to ask if he’s serious, and Jackson sighs in frustration, hand starting to drop.

“If you don’t want to, just say no, asshole.”

“Yes.” Stiles grabs his hand, hauls himself to his feet in, almost tripping into Jackson in an echo of his old clumsiness. “Shower, wash off the streaks. Make some other streaks with things that are not paint. Yes. You and me. Let’s go.”

Jackson lets go of Stiles, works the button on his own jeans before pushing them slightly down. “I dare you to streak through the apartment.”

As dares go, it doesn’t mean anything since Danny’s gone and they’re definitely alone. But it’s worth it to see Stiles shuck his clothes and run down the hall, completely bare-assed naked.

And his ass is pretty good, too. Jackson definitely wants to get his hands on it, so he follows close behind, laughing when Stiles grabs him as he comes into the bathroom.

He’s breaking one of his rules, and Malia is going to be giving him shit about it for the rest of the semester. But with Stiles warm in his arms, water pouring down over them, Jackson can’t bring himself to care.

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com)!


End file.
